


in death, and at the end of the world

by pumpkinpaperweight



Category: The School for Good and Evil - Soman Chainani
Genre: Angst, F/M, I don't think it warrants the graphic depiction tag BUT it's not nice so please be aware, SPOILERS FOR THE SONG OF ACHILLES, Strong Violence, Unhappy Ending, lots of blood, this is the iliad/the song of achilles au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:48:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28368663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pumpkinpaperweight/pseuds/pumpkinpaperweight
Summary: Agatha knew a God was with her before she turned around.And it was not in a good way.Even before she had turned, he spoke. And loud as it was, she knew she was the only one who heard it.“You are not fated to take the citadel, child.”--in bronze age greece, the trojan war rages.agatha goes into battle disguised as tedros, when he will not, to rally the troops.it works a little too well.(a tagatha iliad/the song of achilles au)
Relationships: Agatha/Tedros (The School for Good and Evil)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 33





	in death, and at the end of the world

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nosecoffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nosecoffee/gifts), [camelotsfinest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/camelotsfinest/gifts), [Nervouslaughter508](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nervouslaughter508/gifts), [FennecGinger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FennecGinger/gifts).



> I tried to make this understandable if you're not familiar with the iliad/the song of achilles but I'm not sure if I was successful hh. sorry. CONTEXT: tedros refuses to fight because rafal (who is the commander of the army) has been a dickhead to him. everyone is dying and shit so agatha convinces him to let her go in his place.   
> \---  
> WARNINGS: PRETTY BAD GORE AND BLOOD BC LIKE, PEOPLE DIE IN BATTLE. I didn't think it warranted the warning since it's not too bad but it's still pretty manky. oh and MASSIVE SPOILERS FOR THE SONG OF ACHILLES. MASSIVE.   
> \---  
> Dedicated to everyone who lost their shit in the comments/tags of that iliad au post, but especially avani, lou, ren and sophia bc they were the ones who either COMPLETELY lost their shit or I talked to them a lot about it shjssj but I promise I read everyone's tags/comments and used them all as motivation for this lovely depressing piece!!! I had fun writing it. not a very fun read tho unless you thrive off angst. in which case, you'll have a lovely time

Agatha knew a God was with her before she turned around.

And it was not in a good way.

Even before she had turned, he spoke. And loud as it was, she knew she was the only one who heard it. 

“You are not fated to take the citadel, child.”

Agatha wrenched her spear from a Trojan chest with a crunch of ribs and turned. 

There he was, a few feet away, inhumanly beautiful in the way only Tedros was, virtue of his godly blood. 

But he was softened by his mortality, made kinder, and Apollo-- for it was Apollo, Apollo as he was depicted on the carvings and the temples-- was not. He was harsh in his beauty, almost aggressive, and Agatha fought the impulse to avert her eyes. She did not think it would please him. 

Around them, the battle still raged, but it did not touch them. Agatha thought that, once this encounter was over, no one would notice her sudden lapse in the fighting.

He spoke again. 

“Step away from the walls.”

Despite her better judgement, Agatha turned her face away, teeth clenched. To be warned off an action by Phoebus himself… and to disobey a god…

But she must.

“I cannot.”

“Even  _ aristos achaion _ will not succeed in singlehandedly conquering Ilium.”

“I know this.” said Agatha hoarsely. 

“Tedros will die before Troy is taken. You have been told this. Both of you.”

Agatha swallowed.

“I know.” she repeated. She could read perfectly well into that prophecy, even if the others could not. If Tedros would die before Troy was taken… well, there was no scenario in which he would give up on taking the citadel. 

So he was going to die trying. 

And Agatha could not let him do that.

He would be furious, if she did it for him. She was ignoring him. She was already further into the fighting than he had told her to go--  _ leave the fighting on the plains to others--  _ and she would go further still.

But was she not preserving him? His reputation, as well as his life? 

He would understand. 

Eventually. 

“I am sorry, lord.” she said. It came out as a croak. “I cannot.”

Apollo gazed at her. No doubt he knew what she was trying to do. He was the god of prophecy, after all. 

Hands shaking, Agatha turned away and made for her chariot, reaching for a spear--

The strike was impossibly powerful. Impossibly effective, impossible to anticipate, to block--

Impossible for any mortal, that was.

Apollo approached her from behind and struck her around the head, hurling her against the chariot. Agatha’s head slammed against the metal spokes of the wheel, and she hit the ground hard, reeling and sickened--

It was only when she put her hand to her temple that she realised he had flung her helmet from her head-- severed the leather of the strap and exposed her face.

Vision swimming, she scraped to her knees and cast desperately about for it-- 

But it was too late.

As the ringing in her ears faded, it was replaced with the sound of cheering-- Trojan cheering. They roared, pounding their spears on their shields and jostling for space around her. They recognised, now, that they had been fooled-- the helmet was gone, and they knew that she was not Tedros, not  _ aristos achaion _ , not the offspring of a goddess. Rather, an exiled Princess known for being a healer, not a warrior.

An exiled Princess who had killed Sarpedon, one of their finest generals.

Agatha was not a complete fool. 

She knew when to retreat.

But stunned as she was, struck by a divine hand…

It was no surprise she wasn’t fast enough.

Just as she stood, a second impact came-- between her shoulder blades like a punch, knocking her forwards onto the dry grass and winding her. She feared Apollo returned, tried to rise, but now there was a foot on her back, and--

It was not Apollo. 

It was a mortal warrior, a Trojan, and he had thrown a spear. 

Agatha felt the hot spread of agony as it was yanked from her back, tearing skin and tissue, and shouted in pain. The Trojans laughed, she saw the shift as more spears were raised in readiness--

Then they stopped. Heads turned, people muttered, and armour clattered as lesser warriors scuttled out of the way. Making way for someone much greater. 

Blood running hot and thick down her back, Agatha clawed to her feet, heaving for breath, and staggered back into the thick of the fighting, spear loose in her hand. If she could reach Chaddick, or Nicola, they would get her back to Tedros, or they would send for him and he would come for her, or… or... 

And then Rhian, Prince of Troy and their greatest warrior, was before her, holding her helmet--  _ Tedros’s  _ helmet-- loosely in his left hand. No doubt he had been pursuing her for hours, now, tearing after the figure he believed to be Tedros, hoping to finally prove his worth, to kill the finest of the Greeks…

Well, he would have no luck.

Faintly, Agatha took him in. He certainly looked like a Crown Prince should-- tall and muscular, with cropped hair. His face was mostly disguised by his helmet, but Agatha saw the dip of his head as his gaze moved about. He looked at her, evenly. Then down at the helmet in his hand, the one that had disguised her. He lifted it slightly. Panting, Agatha followed the motion, wondering what he was going to--

Perhaps Rhian’s idea of mercy was distracting her. 

With his left hand, he lifted the gold helmet so the light caught it. 

And with his right, he drove his spear through Agatha’s stomach, knocking her back onto the grass and running her clean through. 

For a second, Agatha felt nothing at all. 

And then she felt everything. 

Despite herself, Agatha screamed; screamed for Tedros. Around her, Greek heads were turning, panic spiking, but not nearly enough of them. Not to be any use. Not for word to get back to the camp. 

In the distance, she heard Chaddick bellow her name, the crunch of bones and armour as his great shield was slammed into opponents, but he was too far away.

Agatha felt blood, running in hot sheets down her legs and chest, and knew it was too late. She was a healer, first, and she knew what happened to men with wounds like these. 

No one could save her now. 

The Trojans jeered, hounding closer, but Rhian merely looked at her. 

“You shouldn’t be here.” he told her. “Should you? You came too far.”

Agatha’s hands scrabbled weakly at the spear shaft, trying to tug it free, but only succeeding in smearing blood up the polished ash. But still, Rhian did not remove it. 

“Yes,” he said. “You came too far.” He looked contemplative, coolly so. “Well, he can’t help you now.” His face hardened. “You were a fool to engage with me.”

He tore the spear out of her, spraying blood across the field and scattering torn flesh. The pain was too great for her to be able to scream, move, do  _ anything _ except curl in on herself and heave, vision completely whiting out for a second--

Rhian’s voice sounded again, dispassionate. 

“Once she has died, strip her of the armour.” he said. “It is a mighty prize and I desire it. I will wear it in battle.”

“And the girl?”

“Ransom her body to the Greeks. They’ll pay for it. They have to.”

Watching through eyes stinging with tears and sweat, Agatha saw Rhian turn away, spear swinging--

She flung her arm out and caught the end of the spear, just before the head, her hands slipping on her own blood. Rhian’s head snapped around.

“Boast loud and long, Prince Rhian.” she surprised herself by how coherent she sounded, how assured. “But this victory is Apollo’s, not yours.  _ He _ struck me and stripped me of my armour. And I was hit with a spear before yours. You are merely the third person to kill me, and that does not sound so fine.”

Rhian smiled mockingly.

“If the dying girl likes, then yes, I am third to kill you. But still, you are dying, and I am not.”

Agatha stared unseeingly at him, more and more convinced these words were not her own.

“Oh, no. You are dying, son of August. Already I see death’s shadow over you, have seen it since the second you approached me with spear in hand.”

She clawed up the end of the spear, suddenly fervid.

“Tedros will  _ slaughter _ you. See if he will not. You dare to wear his armour in battle against him, armour you won by killing me? Tedros is matchless. You will not survive. The gods will abandon you when you need them most. In killing me, you have killed  _ yourself.” _

She hacked blood at his feet. Rhian pulled his spear free of her grip, slicing her palms, and Agatha slumped back onto the grass, again, shivering. The sour, cloying scent of blood seemed to be everywhere, and her chest was slick with it. 

Looking past Rhian’s legs, Agatha found her eyes drawn to a solitary figure standing by her chariot, watching quietly, untouched by the chaos.

Apollo bowed his head to her, turning away to face someone else, a younger boy. 

She was right. Those prophecies, those certainties, had not been her words. They had been put into her mouth by Apollo. She had heard stories of dying warriors making prophecies, but she had never put much stock in them.

Tedros had.

She should have listened to him. 

“Perhaps I will kill him first.” Rhian swung his spear over his shoulder. “How can you know?”

Agatha knew all too well, but she had no strength left to say it. A stinging heaviness was settling on her limbs. She could barely feel the spear wounds, now. She could hardly feel anything. 

Faintly, she thought of Tedros, and tears pricked the corner of her eyes. 

Yes, she should have listened to him. 

She hoped he wasn’t angry with her.

Someone was kneeling over her; the boy Apollo had stood with. 

Not a warrior at all, but a god. 

Hermes. Come to guide her down.

Agatha put her shredded, bloodied hand into his, and her head thudded into the grass.

* * *

Someone had fallen. They had been fighting over him for hours. A King, a Prince, maybe a great general. Someone important. 

So when Dot came tearing up the beach towards him, Tedros ran to meet her. She was fast, but not as fast as him-- they did not call him  _ swift-footed _ for nothing-- and they met in the middle, in the spraying surf. 

“Who were they fighting over?” Tedros demanded, skidding to a stop in front of her in a shower of sand. People were running after her, but slower, jostling together and frequently turning towards Chaddick--

Chaddick who was carrying someone messily wrapped in a shroud. 

_“_ Dot!” barked Tedros, whipping towards her as the rest of the Greeks approached. “What happ--”

His words died in his throat at the look on her face; wretched, anguished. At the tear tracks and running nose. At her silence.

_ “Dot.”  _ he said, and this time his voice shook. “Who is dead?”

Dot’s bloodshot eyes betrayed her, darting back to where Chaddick was approaching, similarly grief-wracked, and Tedros followed her gaze--

Chaddick stooped and set the body down. Where it lay, blood seeped into the sand, crawling outwards, and bloomed in a scarlet circle in the centre of the shroud. A spear directly to the stomach. 

The surf swept in around the body and gathered in a swirl of red, before retreating, dragging a smear of blood down the wet sand.

Chaddick looked up at him, white faced. 

“Who is it?” repeated Tedros, voice weak. He looked frantically around at the assembled. “What happened? Why will you not tell me--”

“Agatha.” croaked Chaddick. “It is Agatha.”

Tedros stared at him, the words not registering. They were only sounds. They did not mean anything. They could not. Agatha could not be dead. Because… because she--

“Rhian killed her. She went too far into the fighting. He caught her and ran her through.”

Chaddick leaned down and stripped the sopping shroud from the corpse’s face with shaking hands.

And then the words meant everything. 

Tedros didn’t realise he had fallen until his knees struck the sand. An inhuman noise was clawing its way out of his throat-- a scream, a monstrous wail of grief. 

People were reaching for him. He did not want them. He knocked Dot’s arms away and shoved Yara back, cast Nicola away, doubling in on himself like he was the one stabbed--

But he wasn’t.

_ Rhian killed her.  _

Tedros clawed at the sand under him as if it was Rhian. He raked his nails down his face and tore his hair like he was Rhian, beat his chest like it was Rhian's and when he screamed, when he  _ howled,  _ he tasted the blood in the back of his throat and pretended it was Rhian's. 

But he was not Rhian.

He was Tedros. He was Tedros, and his Agatha was  _ dead.  _

Heaving, shaking so hard he was nearly convulsing, Tedros clawed his way over to where she lay. He buried his face in her bloodied neck, pulling her into his arms as easily as he always had, but it was not the same. He was surrounded by cold flesh and the hot stench of blood and the ruinous knowledge that she would never again return the embrace, or look at him in general’s meetings and pull a face at him, or crouch over the fire with a furrowed brow, trying to get the meat to cook evenly, or--

Vaguely, Tedros realised someone was keening. It was him, perhaps. People were talking to him, but he could not hear them over his own sobs. 

He cradled Agatha’s head in his lap, bent over it and pressed his cheek to her cold face. The lines of it were sharpened and made gaunt by death, she was paler than he’d ever known her. Someone had shut her eyes. 

The surf crashed into them, smacking into their sides and spraying water into the air. Tedros did not move, even as salt stung his eyes and freezing water plastered his tunic to his chest, and every wave that crashed down returned to the sea dyed scarlet. He would stay here forever, until the tide came in and he was drowned on the beach like he deserved, and then they could be burned on the pyre together, for Agatha would never go where he would not follow… he had to follow… he  _ had  _ to--

Tedros felt the chill seep in his bones and knew his mother was close.

He lifted his head just as the crowd around him stumbled back, the noise plunging to silence. Some people fell to their knees before the sea goddess. Nicola remained standing close by, eyes lowered but flint sharp. 

Tedros looked wretchedly up at his divine mother, clutching Agatha to his chest. 

“I do not want you here.” he said hoarsely.

Another wave smashed into them. Tedros did not move. 

“I heard your cry.” she emerged barefoot from the bloody surf, gazing down at them. She seemed curious. Guinevere, Thetis, whatever name she went by-- his mother was not well acquainted with death. She was divine and undying. She did not know what to make of it.

She reached down and pressed her fingers to the bloody wound--

Tedros struck her hand away, fury blazing to the surface. People gasped.

“I said I do not _want_ you here!” he shouted. “Do not touch her!”

His mother looked at him.

“Rhian killed her.” she said, at last. 

_ Rhian.  _

White hot fury, madness, seared in his chest.

“I will kill Rhian.” snarled Tedros, fingers digging into Agatha’s cold skin. “Tomorrow. I will run him through. I will drag his body three times around the walls of Ilium. I will tear it to pieces.”

People muttered nervously. Rafal watched from the fringe, wary. 

“You have no armour.”

“I do not need armour.” hissed Tedros. 

More muttering; old rumours resurfacing. Rumours of invulnerability, iron skin, blades turned away when they should have struck and killed--

“I will get you armour.” said his mother. “Hephaestus will make it. It will be the finest armour in the world.”

Tedros turned away from her, numb. What did he care for armour, for weapons? For anything? 

No, he cared for nothing now. 

His head fell to Agatha’s cold, bloody chest, and he wept.

* * *

Dreams had a strange power.

Later, she came to him, stood over where he hunched in a fitful sleep over her cold body, and took his chin in her hand.

_ “Tedros, you cannot leave me like this.” _

He stared at her, uncomprehending, and reached for her. He could not touch her. __

_ “Burn my body. Let me cross the Styx.”  _ She put both hands to his face.  _ “I know you will kill Rhian. I told him so. And once Rhian is dead, you will follow.” _

“I wish for that.” Tedros reached for her again, and was still unable to touch her. “I wish--”

_ “Let our bones lie together, then. When you are dead, have our ashes mingled in the same urn. I will wait for you. But burn my body now. Do not leave me lingering on the bank. Do me the honour of a proper funeral.” _

“I have always honoured you.” 

_ “Then do so once more.” _

“I will. I-- Agatha!” 

She let go of him and stepped back. With a cry, Tedros reached for her--

She disappeared like smoke under his hands, and he woke alone in his tent, with only his grief for company.

Yes. Tomorrow, Rhian would die. 

And then, he hoped, he would follow. 

* * *

As it turned out, the foolish girl was right. 

Rhian was not proud of it, but he had been tricked. His pride had driven him outside the walls and into accepting Tedros’s challenge, and a god had run with him, taking the form of his brother, driving him into this grove and disappearing the second he turned his attention away. He didn’t know who. Athena, perhaps. Maybe Apollo had turned on him. It didn’t particularly matter. Rhian was a pious man. He knew when the gods had abandoned someone.    
And this time, it was him. 

_ You will not survive. The gods will abandon you when you need them most. In killing me, you have killed yourself. _

A god had spoken through her. Trying to warn him. 

Rhian watched Tedros slink from the river Scamander and lurch towards him, bloodied water coursing from his armour, and he knew his death was nigh. The men had told him, as they watched Chaddick bear the body away, that she was supposedly his lover. That he had promised to make her his wife when they returned to Phthia. 

Yes, Rhian was going to die. 

Well, he would go to it with dignity. He would fight, and then the gods of the underworld could not deny him Elysium, and that would be a comfort to his poor father, would it not?   
He had one spear left. Only one. Perhaps they would kill each other. 

Tedros stopped in the shadow of one of the trees, gazing at him. He had two spears-- one clamped in his hand, one across his back. He was wearing new armour, fine armour, maybe even god-made, but there seemed to be no point to it. His breastplate was loose and slung lazily across his chest. He was not wearing greaves, not even to protect his famous legs. His helmet was on, but it did nothing to conceal the rabid hatred on his face. 

“We finally meet, son of Arthur.” said Rhian.

Tedros took a step forward. 

“Forgive me my lack of interest in pleasantries.” he said. “I did not come to  _ speak _ with you.”

Rhian sighed deeply. 

“No.” he said. “I suppose you did not.”

He threw his spear.

It was a good throw. An excellent one, in fact. It would have been doom for an ordinary soldier, maybe even for a King. 

But Tedros was semi-divine, and he was bereaved, and he was  _ aristos achaion. _

And Rhian had killed Agatha.

Tedros turned away from the spear almost lazily, the catlike bend of his body effortless. He raised his shield and took the brunt of the blow in the centre, and despite the crash of metal on metal, the spear didn’t even pierce the first layer. It was turned away and sent skittering into the turbulent waters of the Scamander.

Rhian closed his eyes briefly. God-made armour indeed. And while his-- Rhian’s, Agatha’s, Tedros’s, whoever it belonged to-- was fine, it was made for a smaller man than him. It gaped at the neck, where Tedros was slighter.

He knew where Tedros would aim. 

“Well,” he said. “Make your throw. I ask only one thing.”

Tedros lifted his spear over his shoulder. 

“What is it?”

“Return my body to my father. So he may give it a proper funeral.”

Tedros bared his teeth.

“You fought to take and ransom my Agatha’s body.  _ Your _ body will get exactly what it deserves. Lions do not bargain with men. I, too, will kill you and eat you raw.”

Rhian did not get a chance to respond.

The spear point caught the centre of his throat and ripped right through.

* * *

Perhaps the gods had not completely abandoned Rhian after all, because his body remained unsullied, despite Tedros’s best efforts.

And when the blind, elderly King arrived in the dead of night…

Well, a god had to have walked with him. 

“You are a fool.” said Tedros blankly to King August, prising his hands out of his grip. “Are you mad, to kiss the hands that killed your son?” 

“I am, perhaps.” said August, still clutching his knees. “Who else can say they have done so? But my son… Rhian was my pride and joy.”

“You have fifty sons.” said Tedros faintly. It should have been a rebuke, but it was flat and unenthusiastic. A basic factual recall.

“And your father has only one. But I think, fifty sons or just one, we would do the same.”

Tedros looked down at the old man.

“You do not need to kneel.” he said quietly. He helped the trembling old man to his feet and guided him to a seat. “I will bring wine.”

“You are kind, but there is no need.” said August. “I will not be here long.”

Tedros looked at him.

“How do you know that?”

“Either you will return my son’s body to me, or you will not.”

“I could kill you.” said Tedros flatly. 

“Yes.” said August. “There is also that possibility.”

He seemed unafraid. 

“You do not think I will.” observed Tedros. 

August shrugged.

“I have heard you are a noble man.”

“I butchered your son.”

“And my son butchered your wife.” August set his hands in his lap, and the stance reminded Tedros of his father. 

Tedros stiffened.

“She was not my wife. Not yet.”

“Ah. I apologise.”

“It does not matter.” said Tedros thickly, turning away. “She is dead, and soon, I will be too.”

August didn’t question the remark. Even the best warriors died, in the end. That was why they were here.

He glanced back at the King. 

“Why did you take this risk? If I kill you--”

August cut him off.

“I would sooner die than return to Ilium without my son.” he said calmly. It was no dramatic proclamation. It was simply a fact. He had fifty sons. And he was willing to die for any one of them.

Tedros stared at the old King. August stood shakily, and Tedros went to steady him. 

“If you wish me to leave, I will--”

“Stay a little longer.” said Tedros quietly. “I will prepare your son’s body myself.”

* * *

In the end, they cannot agree how exactly Tedros died. 

Some say that Apollo guided Hort’s arrow into the single weak spot in his ankle, severing his connection to his mortal life and killing him there and then. Others say the arrow hit his foot, but only served to slow down the fastest man alive, so he could be cut down. Some say Hort poisoned the arrow, or that it pierced all the way through his heel and into the ground, pinning him there long enough to be shot multiple times. Some say he was simply mortal after all, and Hort’s arrow struck his chest. Some say he stood there on purpose, presented his weak spot and waited to die. They speculate that he loved the horsewoman he killed the previous week and wished to be with her. Or the Ethiopian King he killed the week before. But no, that was revenge, there was no affection-- the gossip goes on. Some bring up Agatha, some don’t. It doesn’t particularly matter. The only detail that they all agree on is that he smiled when he hit the earth.

And that is very odd. 

Apart from the fact that it is not odd at all. 

They are buried together. 

Nicola sees to that. 

**Author's Note:**

> a lot of the dialogue (though not all-- I just made some of it up sjssjk) was adapted from either the iliad or the song of achilles since I have both sitting next to me and kinda just jumped between the two as and when I felt like it. I made apollo a lot kinder tho I wanted to go halfway house between MM's v stern, unfeeling, kinda callous gods and the iliad's "these are humans but they are bitchier and more powerful" hhh. I took some liberties-- the thing about dying warriors being like "bitch you're next" is technically true but it's maybe a stretch to call them prophecies. the ritual mourning thing where you kinda beat the shit out of yourself was semi-accurate. I kind of considered this revision for my world of the hero mock not gonna lie to you. hope you enjoyed!


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